They finally found a proper definition for a kilogram. Yay!
And, which maybe is even more important, I am feeling happy. Really do. Feels strange, because I haven’t felt like this for too long. And I am a bit angry for the reasons why I feel happy, something in me tells me it’s stupid to feel happy because of this and some other parts shout back at these thoughts to shut the fuck up because it doesn’t fucking matter. So you see the mess in my head has not gotten a bit tidied up. But I feel happy. Which probably is a bad thing for some of you, because for the time being I will not spend much time online for the very simple reason that I don’t have much time at the moment. My self absoprtion has been overridden by new challenges. In a way, I almost feel that there is a real Mara buried somewhere in my mind. But that may just be hopeful thinking, let’s not get overexcited. Anyway, take care guys (and gals?)!
PS: I am clean for three (?) weeks now! I don’t remember when I started but I believe it was three weeks ago. Take that you fucking addiction, muahahaha!
That’s the knife with which Joanna Dennehy killed three men and tried to kill two others. She also tried to kill women imprisoned with her and threatened a guard. I like Joanna. For me, she is like the superstar of all the serial killers. She killed, because it was fun for her. She never showed any signs of remorse. She even killed a guy who wanted to help her and gave her shelter. She manipulated a 7 foot tall thug to assist her. Unfortunately, Dennehy is not the brightest, otherwise she would not have been caught and serve life imprisonment. But hey, had she not been caught, we would not know about her, right? But just imagine her around and about with the training of a military assassin. Dennehy with the capabilites of a special forces officer. Wow, she would be unstoppable. And not even need the knife. But of course it’s more fun to draw blood than to snap necks, is it not?
Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.
Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.
Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every woman you meet
(Charles C. Finn; excerpts of ‘Please hear what I’m not saying’; and a little edit at the end. I like the poem. Most of it describes me pretty well.)
Just dropping by to tell you that I don’t have much time to be online, maybe for a while. A lot going on here, which leaves little time to maintain this blog (which, I guess, is a good thing - I mean, me not thinking about myself so much). So, please bear with me, if I don’t answer your messages or e-mails. Don’t worry, for a chance things are changing to the better (I’m pretty sure).
Draw your sword, mighty shield-maiden, and moisten the soil with the blood of your enemies. Let me clean the blade, after it has done its deeds in battle. Let me sharpen it and polish it with my garment. Let me soothe your soul and provide you with pleasures far from the horros of the battlefield. Let me be your knave, your maid and redeemer. Lay all your darkness and bitterness upon me, all your sorrows and pain, for I will gladly take it in your stead. You may skillfully wield your sword and wreak havoc among our foes, but your soul is pure and of noble spirit. Let me soak up the darkness, for my soul is already marred. Let me be your darkness, against your spirit so nobly may shine against.
“No, no, no ... Geez ... Hey, come here! ... Right now! Come here, chrissakes! ... What’s wrong with this? Huh? What’s wrong with this? No idea? No? Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it! You were supposed to write ‘dumb’, not ‘numb’! Oh, geez. The shit I have to put up with here. Now, cut your finger again, and correct this! Go ahead, I’m waiting! ... Good, now turn that ‘n’ into a ‘d’! A ‘d’! Oh, good Lord! Give me your hand! Give - me - your - hand! ... So, now it’s correct. ‘dumb’. I like it. And now go back to your padded cell, after all this is a civilized lunatic asylum and patients are not supposed to run around as they please ... Shoo, shoo, go back, go back ... And lick you finger clean! No blood on the bed sheets! You hear me? .... Fucking dumbwits. The shit I have to put up with.”
Can someone please explain the concept of forgiveness to me? Revenge makes so much more sense. The greater the pain, the more sense it makes. Fuck forgiveness.
I’ve written the little story below some time ago. Now, given that it is the weekend around the Festum Omnium Sanctorum (better known as Halloween, the US American distorition of it), I thought it would be fitting to post it.
The sky was overclouded, but soon the sun’s warm rays would pierce through the grey layer and illuminate faces and minds. The air was warm and damp from the rain shower which had washed over the city. The lawn was accurately mowed and lush, not a single speck of dirt on the small path. Everything was perfectly clean, just as the cemetery should be. After all, people should enjoy walking through the fields of death just as they enjoyed strolling through shopping malls, should they not?
In front of one of the graves, a woman was kneeling in the damp, lush grass. She was dressed in a black pantsuit, her hands softly resting against her thighs. She was kneeling with her back to the path leading through the cemetery, so her face was hidden from the prying looks of the visitors. The grass around the grave was rough and interspersed with fresh earth. Just recently someone had been buried in this grave, maybe even today. The people passing her by on the path thought she was mourning a lost loved one. They left her alone, she would want to say her last goodbyes in silence. They left her alone, because it was right and decent. They even did not care to read the engraving on the tombstone.
The tombstone bore one single name. And a date. It was indeed a fresh grave, the body inside not yet rotten and decayed to earth. The people passing by the kneeling woman were so very decent that they did not notice that she had not brought flowers or a candle for the dead loved one so freshly buried. They left her alone, and rightly so.
The people also did not notice that the woman was not crying. She even did not have a sad look on her face. A smile played around her lips. Not a happy one, no, do not be mistaken. A dark, cold and satisfied smile. Her gaze was fixed on the name engraved in the tombstone. Judging by her wet trouser legs she must have been kneeling there for at least twenty minutes. Her eyes flared like those of a predator, but she remained kneeling motionless as a statue. So many visitors passed her by. So many left her alone. Alone with her thoughts and the grave and the one buried inside it.
At a moment just the same as all the many others which have passed, the woman clenched her fists. Her gaze darkened, her smile gone. With her finger she wrote something in the fresh dirt in front of the grave. She wrote a date several years in the past, but no one noticed it, they all were so very decent. The woman stood up, remained motionless for a long moment, and then stomped on what she had written in the dirt with the heel of her boot. Fiercely, the heel dug deep into the dirt, until what she had written was gone for good, never to be written again. The woman reached inside her pocket and produced something white from it which she held in her fist. It was closed so strongly that her fingernails almost cut her palm. Then she opened her fist and slammed the white something against the name engraved on the tombstone. She held her hand against the tombstone for a second or two, then she let go and walked away, never to return.
One of the passers-by actually noticed as the woman slammed her hand against the tombstone even though he tried to be so very decent. He waited until she left, then he went over to look. She had dropped something on the grave, but before the man could make out what it was, a gust of wind blew the little white piece away. The man wondered, but then left shrugging and minding his own business. Next time he visited the grave of his grandparents, there still were no flowers on the grave the woman had been kneeling in front of. And no candles.
Would love to have a tattoo. Around my shoulder. But not get it inked, I want it to grow from the inside. I wonder what it would look like. Maybe it would change depending on my mood. Maybe it would spread and cover my whole body. Maybe it would turn red and burn my skin. Maybe it will just be a rose, soft and with a nice odor. Maybe it will be like a Rohrschach test, letting the beholder see what he/she wants to see. Why can’t reality be more surreal? Just a little bit. Would make life so much more interesting.
And this time I will succeed and break with my additcion to which I have succumbed to for more than ten years now. That’s why I post this. To finally make myself get rid of it. I am tired and fed up with myself for having failed so often. Don’t bother to ask me what I am addicted to, I won’t tell you (you’ll never guess, btw). This is not about you, this is about me. I promise to post here, should I fail again.
Today, I wondered whether I should have children. Just one. A cute little daughter. For my whole life I was convinced that I was the last person who should become a mother. Not so today.
“…has shaped her personality to cope with [her] world.”
This quote from a book review stuck with me. I would raise my daughter as a single mum. I would imbue her with what is inside of me and she would shape herself accordingly. I would make her strong and efface the tiniest speck of remorse and guilt I detect inside her. I would make her view the world as a set of opportunities to be put to good use. I would teach her that she is the center of her universe and the most important thing in it. And when she finally turns against me, takes my possessions and uses me to her advantage, I know I have done well.
Tomorrow, I will hate myself for this idea. But today I dwell in it. (And right now I hate my tomorrow’s self for hating my present self to have written this.)
